


Skin-Deep

by Neurotoxia



Series: Inked & Bloody [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Case Fic, Consulting Artist, M/M, Non-Graphic Descriptions of Violent Crimes, Pre-Slash, Tattoo Artist Sherlock, Tattoo!lock, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson looks for a way to commemorate his military service. Mike Stamford recommends the eccentric ‘consulting artist’ Sherlock Holmes -- and John ends up with much more than just a tattoo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mm8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mm8/gifts).



> Written for the Winter Holmestice 2013: after the idea of tattoo!lock had been spooking around in my head for ages, I finally received a prompt that allowed me to set it all off. This fic will be part of a series (which is already in the works), but for the time being, it acts as a stand-alone. 
> 
> My conductor of light was [penombrelias](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/), who was magnificent as usual! Further thanks goes to [Marta](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Marta/pseuds/Marta) who was kind enough to look through my grammar and spelling!
> 
> I work part-time at a tattoo parlour as a shop assistant, so I drew most of what I describe from my experiences there. Every artist works a bit differently, so my word here is not to be taken as gospel. Also, opinions stated herein do not necessarily reflect my own.

  
[](http://de.tinypic.com?ref=21dk4ly)   


  


The tattoo attracts and also repels precisely because it is different.  
\-- Margo DeMello, Bodies of Inscription

* * *

The first thing John heard when he entered the studio was the distinct whirring of a tattoo machine somewhere in the back of the shop. Mike Stamford, who John had followed here, smiled at him in encouragement.

It didn’t look like a tattoo parlour at first glance. There were a couple of mismatched, well-worn leather sofas and a dark, wooden coffee table to the right side, placed upon a Persian rug that looked like it had seen better days. The walls were covered in different styles of wallpapers, from baroque patterns in black and white to peppermint-green with bamboo leaves. A cow skull wearing headphones hung on one of the walls next to a mirror, and a human skull -- an eerily genuine looking one -- loomed on a high shelf. A large desk with a computer to the left, two armchairs placed in front of it. All walls were lined with shelves containing a plethora of books; John was surprised to see not only books on tattoos, like the truly enormous volume on Japanese _irezumi_ , but also books on anatomy and medicine (some of which he owned himself), serial killers, typography, botany, zoology, cars, religion, architecture and -- oddly -- beekeeping. And those were only the ones he could identify. Mixed in were volumes so ancient-looking they could have been printed by Gutenberg himself. Colourful butterflies, bugs and other insects were displayed in glass show cases. There wasn’t much that gave away the shop as a tattoo and piercing parlour, the few items being an open photo album with presumably the artist’s work on the coffee table and a few cabinets displaying the different piercings and jewellery. 

“Wow, Mike -- how do you know the place?”

“It’s popular with some of my students. And he’s been to Bart’s a few times. The artist is a bit of an underground rock star in the scene, from what I hear. Or the _enfant terrible_ , depending on who you ask.”

“I can’t say I agree with either description,” sounded a deep voice from the left and John jumped a little, turning to the source of the new voice.

That had to be the infamous artist. Tall, dark-haired with pale skin and prominent cheekbones, wearing a pale blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Stretching out from under the right sleeve was an intricate tattoo that looked as if someone had taken a pencil, a brush and a set of watercolours to it. John was too far away to glimpse the particulars, but he was impressed by the bright display of scattered colours and sketched drawings. A skull drawing seemed to peek out from under the hem of the sleeve and John was fairly sure he could identify a few bees. The rest of the tattoo disappeared under a pair of nitrile gloves, smeared with blotches of black, turquoise and yellow. He held a crumpled paper towel with the same colouring in his right hand. 

If not for the tattoo, he’d look more befitting of a position in a bank than a tattoo shop.

A set of eyes nearly as pale as the shirt he wore scrutinised John from the top of his head down to the sole of his shoes, and John shifted the hand on his cane, feeling a little nervous.

“So, what shall it be? RAMC emblem or your unit?” the artist asked nonchalantly and John gaped at him.

“How...?”

“How did I know you were an army doctor? Please, it’s obvious. You lingered on the medical texts, you are a friend of Mike Stamford’s and you checked out the nitrile gloves, the shrink wrapped instruments and no doubt recognised the autoclave in the back room. Concerns about hygienic, sterile practises with a knowledge of medical texts and machinery? Doctor. Your haircut and stance say military, your tan lines don’t extend beyond collar and wrists, so you served a tour in Afghanistan or Iraq. The cane says wounded in action although your leg doesn’t seem to give you much trouble when standing, so I’d say partly psychosomatic. You’ve been traumatically wounded, discharged, and you now look to commemorate your service coupled with an attempt to bring you closure.” The man finished and looked absolutely smug.

“That was amazing,” was all John had to say. Because only the word "amazing" even began to adequately describe the extraordinary performance he had just witnessed. 

“Hm. Most people tell me to piss off,” the man said and smirked. “Interesting.”

John cleared his throat, attempting to bring the conversation back on track and away from himself or the artist’s smile. Which was quite dazzling, if he thought about it. “Well, I’m not sure which to get. Both are important to me.”

“To be expected. Leave it to me.” He waved his hand as if attempting to swat away a fly. “Normally, there’s a four-month waiting period, but as it happens, somebody _cancelled_ their appointment for next week.” He stressed the ‘cancelled’ and made a face as if he had just bitten into a lemon. John thought it better not to ask.

“I’ll take that, then.” John was unemployed, it didn’t matter when the appointment was. He had free time in overabundance -- and hated every second of it.

“The second of February at twelve. And I need fifty pounds as a deposit,” the artist muttered and jotted down the appointment with a pencil in his calendar. “Name?”

“Oh, so you can’t tell my name from the way I tie my shoes?” John asked with a teasing smile.

The other man rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “I observe, but I’m not psychic.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he answered and handed over a few bills. “John Watson.”

John received a small card with his appointment noted down in return. The man had nice handwriting, unlike John’s scrawl. But John was a doctor, he had to have horrible handwriting to be considered a proper man of medicine. 

“I suppose I’ll see you next week then, Mr. --” John then noticed that he didn’t even know the other man’s name. 

“Holmes. But call me Sherlock, please. And no, it’s not an alias,” Sherlock offered with a smirk, once again leaving John feeling as if his mind had just been read. Despite Sherlock’s claims, he didn’t rule out _psychic_ yet.

“Oh, okay.”

“I know some of my _colleagues_ fancy themselves stars in need of an alias. Imbeciles,” Sherlock muttered and removed the nitrile gloves, sending them into the nearby bin in a graceful arch. “Well, I’ve got to dash, there’s a naked man in the back waiting for my return.”

While Sherlock Holmes vanished again into the back and Mike Stamford bounced on the balls of his feet as a man who was obviously pleased with his work, John Watson dragged his mind back out of the gutter.

***

“Boring. Get out!” That was the first thing John heard when he set foot in the studio a week later, although it wasn’t directed at him.

Sherlock Holmes was facing down an agitated potential customer, who was flushed red and waved the sheets of paper with some printouts in front of Sherlock’s nose. Unfazed, Sherlock stood there, arms crossed over his chest and wasn’t even blinking when the customer began to yell about abysmal service.

“Go elsewhere with this rubbish and come crawling back to me in five years when you want it covered up,“ Sherlock retorted. John suppressed an impulse to wince at Sherlock’s handling of customers. Was he always like that? To him, Sherlock had seemed a little distanced and blunt, but not rude.

The customer stormed past John, huffing a few more insults and threats how she would never come back and tell all her friends about this. John felt a little uncomfortable with the heavy silence afterwards. The classical music playing in the background only accentuated it.

“Uhm...hello.” John cleared his throat and stepped towards the counter.

“Ah, John. There you are,” Sherlock said. “Have a seat.”

“Difficult customer?” John asked, sitting down in the battered armchair in front of the desk. It was surprisingly comfortable.

“I don’t do boring designs. And if I see one more picture of a dandelion turning into birds, I’ll set fire to it. Or hunt down the ‘artist’ of that piece and make them sorry they were ever born,” Sherlock grumbled and flopped down in the chair behind the desk. Once again, he was in a dress shirt -- this time a deep burgundy, top button undone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tattoos peeking out from underneath. The dark denim jeans he had paired the shirt with made the colour of the shirt and his body art stand out even more. John would really like a few minutes to examine Sherlock’s arm. And more, if he was being honest with himself.

“Seems a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

“You see a dozen people bringing that exact picture to you within a month to have it tattooed and we’ll talk again. If you think stars are a plague, this one makes a serious competitor.” Sherlock waved his objection away as if it were a fly. 

John wasn’t sure what to reply to that statement. His expertise didn’t exactly extend into the realm of tattoo designs and he wasn’t sure if Sherlock actually expected an answer. Probably not. He was still contemplating Sherlock’s collarbone when a piece of paper was placed on the desk in front of him. John blinked a few times to clear his head and focussed on the paper instead. 

It wasn’t what he had expected. There were the two emblems of the RAMC and the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, drawn in red and blue pencil, almost like rough sketches. They overlapped just enough to be still recognisable on their own but effortlessly fused together. Bold typography ran below the emblems and it took John a few seconds of reading to recognise that it was parts of the Declaration of Geneva and the Oath of Allegiance. Dark red -- the same colour as Sherlock’s shirt -- splatters dotted along the paper, placed randomly and a few running through the emblems and typography. 

“Close your mouth, John. You look like a goldfish,” Sherlock said and John looked up to see a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He looked pleased with himself. “I’m sure you initially thought of getting one of the emblems in a straightforward manner on your upper arm but I chose the less traditional road to see how you would react. And I can’t say that I’ve been disappointed.”

“That is...amazing. I would’ve never thought of that!” 

“Of course not. It’s so dull inside most people’s minds. Oh, don’t be like that,” Sherlock said as John scowled. “Shall we get started?”

“Well...” John began, feeling embarrassed. “The design is fantastic. I’d love to get it done, but I don’t think I can afford that. I suppose this is worth a few hundred quid, isn’t it? Hate to say it, but I haven’t saved up that much.”

John wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. He hated being so short on money, but an army pension wasn’t much to live on while he was still looking for a civilian position. There weren’t many places that would hire a doctor with a war trauma, a tremor and a bad leg, no matter how spotless his CV was. 

Sherlock only looked mildly bored, eyebrow raised and fingertips drumming on the desk. “Don’t worry about it,” he said and got up.

“What? No!” John protested. Sherlock couldn’t be serious. They weren’t talking about fifty pence here.

“John, don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock scrutinised him for a few seconds. John had his mouth set in a firm line and wore a frown. 

“Ah,” Sherlock breathed. “You don’t want to accept charity, or pity for that matter. Rest assured that my motive isn’t quite so noble. I’m not known for being charitable, on the contrary: if you get on my nerves, I’ll likely overcharge you. I’d much rather do an interesting, challenging tattoo for free than getting paid for something that bores me to death.”

John kept his brows furrowed. Sherlock _had_ thrown out a woman just now for bringing him boring ideas. He wouldn’t put that kind of attitude past the man before him. Still...

“Fair enough. But I still can’t let you do that. It’s too much.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh for God’s sake. Quit being so modest, take your shirt off and get in the chair.”

In a different context, those words would have directed his blood flow elsewhere but he was too occupied with the money issue to be distracted by his libido.

At the sight of John’s stubbornness, Sherlock sighed — so dramatically, one would think John were a misbehaving toddler.

“Let’s do it like in restaurants in those idiotic films: you come here to work until the bill’s paid off,” Sherlock said, sarcasm very obvious.

John suppressed an embarrassed cough and had to drag his mind out of the gutter yet again. He had seen too many films where bills were paid in _alternative_ currencies. And Sherlock didn’t look as if he was talking about those kind of films. Shame. Though, not really. That would be a little too close to prostitution for him to walk away with his dignity intact.

“I could do that. It’s not as if I have another job to interfere.”

Now, Sherlock assumed the look of a goldfish. A bored goldfish. He probably hadn’t expected John to agree, but didn’t want to let on. “John, it’s really not necessary --”

“I insist.”

Once again, Sherlock looked as if John was the unreasonable one. “I sometimes play the violin when I think. And I might not talk for days on end.”

“Okay…?” John wasn’t sure where this was going.

“Well, you should know what you have to deal with as an employee. Most don’t last longer than two weeks.” Sherlock shrugged, clearly not too put out by the way he burned through staff, which John found a little worrying.

“I’m sure I can live with that,” John said. Violin and silence didn’t sound like anything he couldn’t deal with. “I was in the army, remember?”

“Yes, yes. Will you _please_ undress now?”

John needn’t be told twice.

***

The pain was a curious one, John pondered as Sherlock traced the outline with a fine needle. He had asked several of his comrades who had got a tattoo, but no one could quite describe it. Many had urged him to get it done during his tour, but at the time, he hadn’t been sure if he really wanted one -- and he didn’t think much of the makeshift parlours on the bases or in the Afghan villages.

Now, after his ungraceful discharge from active service, he wanted to commemorate it. His tags, the battered uniform and a mug was all that was left of John Watson, soldier and doctor. He wanted something more permanent.

Most people thought he should be grateful for coming home -- and mostly in one piece at that. While John _was_ grateful for the latter, he couldn’t quite reconcile with the first. Lifelong civilians such as his sister couldn’t see why anyone would miss being shot at. Only other soldiers understood it, really understood it. Most of them could cope better with a firefight with Taliban in the desert than buying shampoo at a Boots in London when they were on their way home from a nine-to-five desk job.

In Afghanistan, at least he wouldn’t have to deal with people like his sister Harry. The two of them had never got on very well, ever since they were children. Only John’s sense of familial duty made him contact her at all. 

Harry was no different in that regard-- after John had been sent home, Harry had urged him to stay with her, because she felt that she had to offer. She was unable to cope with a brother that needed help all of a sudden instead of a courtesy call every now and then and a Christmas visit. John had actually seen the relief on Harry’s face after he had declined. She had pushed her phone on him afterwards, and John had taken it, because he had needed one and wanted to get away from Harry’s look of discomfort and pity. Not that Harry’s gift had been selfless: she had needed something to soothe her conscience and she had wanted to get rid of the phone. The engraving was a glaring reminder that Harry had mucked up her marriage and walked away instead of trying to fix it.

“John, you’re becoming tense,” Sherlock said behind him, sounding very distant for a second before John had shaken himself out of the gloomy reverie that had settled upon him. Right, he was getting a tattoo, not a therapy session with his internal psychologist. He stopped fingering the phone through his trouser pocket.

John cleared his throat. “Sorry, hadn’t noticed.”

“You’ll do yourself a favour trying to stay relaxed,” Sherlock said, finishing off a long line that had hurt quite a lot. “Whatever’s bothering you, wait until we’re done before you have a sulk.”

Well, Sherlock certainly didn’t hold back.

“Clients never go tense from the pain?” John asked in an attempt to deflect.

“They do. But you’re not tensing up because of the pain, so I’m telling you to stop it,” Sherlock said, dipped the tip of the needle in one of the small pots filled with black ink and wiped across the tattoo with a dry paper towel before starting the machine again. John thought the dry paper towels hurt more than most of the tattooing.

“Why do you think it’s not the pain?” John couldn’t help but ask. Sherlock’s intelligence and observational skills were fascinating.

Instead of answering directly, Sherlock snorted. “Oh please. You were shot, a tattoo is a walk in the park for you.” He ran a gloved finger across the scar on John’s left shoulder that still stood out like a sore thumb. The scarring itself wasn’t too bad considering the infection he had battled, but the tissue was still pink and looked a bit like a spiderweb gone wrong. John wasn’t really surprised Sherlock recognised the scar as a gunshot wound.

“You got me there,” John said with a smile on his lips. Not that Sherlock could see it.

“And since you’re fiddling with your phone, you’re probably expecting an unpleasant call or something similar. Family, if I had to guess,” he spoke over the buzz of the machine.

“Almost right. Although, an unpleasant family call isn’t out of the question.” John sighed and thought about Harry’s calls that occurred every third day, asking about his well-being before descending into inane small talk, because his sister had no idea what to speak about with him. They had lost touch with each other after Harry had moved out to go to university. John had no idea which films his sister liked, what her favourite dish was or if she had read any books recently. All he knew was that she had been working in the office of a property management firm for five years now and stuck with a particular fondness for pouring brandy into her coffee and rum into her tea.

“There are pleasant family calls?” Sherlock asked with a dry note and John couldn’t help but chuckle.

“No, I supposed not.”

After three hours of uninterrupted tattooing and wiping, John had to admit that the area was beginning to feel irritated. The places where Sherlock traced the skin several times for shadowing and texture were starting to protest a bit under the assault. At least the pain was still bearable. 

They took a short break which John used to go to the loo. 

Towards the end of hour five, John hissed when Sherlock touched certain areas with his fingers or worse, his machine.

“Ah, are we feeling the pain?” Sherlock asked, humour in his voice.

“No, I was just trying a new way of breathing,” John retorted and winced a little.

“Don’t move,” Sherlock warned him. “We should be done in twenty minutes.”

“Thank God,” John sighed and gritted his teeth for the last stretch.

Sherlock hadn’t been lying at least. Twenty minutes later, he wiped down the tattoo with green soap and spread a layer of ointment over the area. Then, he took a roll of cling film from a drawer and tore off a large piece which he fastened on John’s back with a few strips of medical tape.

“Remove the cling film in three to six hours, eight maximum. Wash it with lukewarm water and pH-adjusted soap and dab it dry with anything that doesn’t give off fluff. I recommend paper towels. No soaking in the tub, swimming or sunbathing for the next two weeks. If you go to the gym, don’t put too much strain on the area. No bandages, covers or plasters. I assume I don’t have to tell you about basic hygiene,” Sherlock rattled off and thrust a flyer at John that contained the instructions in more detail.

“No, I remember a thing or two about that,” John smirked and took the glossy fold-out, folding and putting it in his back pocket.

“Otherwise, I’d fear for the medical profession,” Sherlock said while John gingerly worked to put on his t-shirt. Moving his arms hurt and the skin on his back was thrumming with a burning sensation.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” John asked when he had managed to dress himself.

Sherlock removed the ink-filled caps from his worktop and deposited them in the bin.

“I suppose so, since you insist on paying,” Sherlock said and removed the needles from the machines.

“I do.” John refused to compromise on this.

“Then I will see you tomorrow,” Sherlock smiled at him.

“Yes. Thanks, Sherlock. Good night.”

“Good night, John.”


	2. Chapter 2

  
There is no “underground” community,  
no dark den of drunken sailors initiating themselves into manhood via cheap, ill-conceived exercises in bodily perforation;  
it’s just a group of people who delight in using their bodies as billboards.  
\-- Joanne McCubrey, Walking Art: Tattoos

* * *

The next morning, John awoke with a crick in his neck from sleeping on his stomach for most of the night. He had found lying on the sore skin of his back too uncomfortable.

Washing and putting salve on the tattoo had been a bit difficult on his own — reaching parts of your back was a challenge even if you possessed unrestricted movement. John’s left shoulder wasn’t as mobile as before yet— if it was ever going to be.

John reached under his t-shirt and examined the area with light touches. The tattooed skin was still somewhat tender and swollen, but much less so than when he had removed the cling film yesterday. The healing process was well on its way as far as he could tell. Sherlock had offered to check it later if John wanted him to, although John’s expertise should be sufficient to notice if anything went amiss.

Ah, yes. His temporary job.

John’s mood lightened instantly. Even if it was only for a short time, it felt good to have a reason to get up in the morning.

John ignored his laptop (which was only a reminder that he hadn’t written anything into his therapist-directed blog. Ella would not be amused.) and put the small kettle on. It should be ready when he got out of the bathroom.

In the shared bathroom down the hall, he ran into two of his neighbours, -- luckily two of the nicer ones, yet he’d give anything for having his own private loo -- showered, shaved, and cleaned the fresh tattoo with the recommended body wash (and grinned stupidly when he bent around to look at it in the mirror). Afterwards, he spread a thin layer of ointment over the area and headed back to his place.

The kettle was still steaming when he entered, so he dug out a mug and tea bag for his first hot beverage of the day. If he didn't have any tea before leaving the house, he was hardly able to function.

As the tea steeped, John switched the telly on. Anything to make the room less silent and depressing. 

John hated this beige nightmare of a bedsit, but he couldn’t afford anything better. And if he didn’t find a ‘real’ job soon, he wouldn’t even be able to pay for this hovel. An army pension wasn’t designed for London’s living expenses. John dreaded that he would have to leave -- London had been his home ever since university, and he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

BBC news were showing a press conference held at Scotland Yard. From the text on the screen, it looked like it was about that string of crimes that had haunted London recently. Panes of human skin showing up all over the city, and no sign of the people they used to be attached to. The press was all over it, but John hadn’t paid much attention to the particulars. 

While John got dressed and ready, a grey-haired detective inspector and a detective sergeant with long, curly black hair answered questions, looking irritated whenever the journalists implied that the whole of London was under a threat from a madman skinning random citizens.

He left his bedsit at nine to do his weekly shopping. Sherlock hadn’t mentioned when he expected John to be at the studio, but John had seen on the business card that it opened at twelve. He would make sure to be there twenty minutes before that.

Comparing the prices at the nearest Sainsbury’s and Tesco, John grudgingly admitted to himself that shopping these days meant filling the basket with toast, tinned beans and whatever brand of pasta was on sale. He threw in a packet of biscuits just to defy his statement.

Around eleven, John was squished into a Tube carriage, balancing a cup of coffee in his left hand and holding onto the railing with his right. Not that he could have fallen over with the amount of people pressed against him. On top of that, a tourist repeatedly banged his rucksack into John’s ribs without noticing. If John wasn’t so very British, he would be tempted to _accidentally_ spill his coffee on the man.

After he had fought his way out of the train, he had to push through the mass of people gathered inside Baker Street station (more tourists -- on their way to Madame Tussaud’s, if John had to hazard a guess) and tried hard not to snap at a teenage girl with a thick Scottish accent at the ticket barrier when she failed to have her ticket ready and then further failed to find it for a full minute, blocking the way for everyone else at the gate.

Thankfully, his mood lightened again when he walked down Baker Street. He was actually looking forward to this. 

And to Sherlock Holmes.

Now that he stood in front of it again, John noticed that the shop didn’t look much like a tattoo studio. There were no signs, the window front was tinted, and the red awning didn’t have any writing on it. John could only vaguely decipher the peeled off letters from one of the previous owners. Apparently, this once had been a café called “Speedy’s.” Merely the curved writing on the front door gave away that the place was occupied.

_Sherlock Holmes_

_Consulting Artist_

Consulting Artist sounded a tad dramatic in John’s opinion, but Sherlock appeared to be the eccentric sort. Squeezed into the bottom left corner, a sticker with the business hours told John that they should have opened twenty minutes ago. Not what it had said on the card. Inconsistent opening hours, great. And where was Sherlock? John should have asked for his phone number.

“Good morning, dear. Are you waiting for Sherlock?”

John turned to see an elderly lady carrying shopping bags. She wore a warm smile that instantly won John’s sympathy. 

“Err, yes actually. I was supposed to work here for a bit.”

“Oh, did he find someone new already? Good!”

The woman seemed delighted and John wondered how she knew Sherlock. Surely, she wasn’t a customer?

“Yes, I thought I’d meet him here, but it seems he’s not in yet,” John said and took the last sip of the coffee he had bought at the tube station. It tasted like dishwater.

“Oh, that boy is terrible at keeping his hours! Half the time, he lounges about in his pyjamas when he’s supposed to be working!” She shook her head, but in a fond sort of way. Was she his mother? “You can come in and get him. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

“Come in…?” John asked.

“Sherlock lives above the studio. I’m his landlady.” She gestured towards the windows on the first floor and continued to smile at John.

“Oh, okay! Sherlock didn’t mention he lived here. Can I help you with those bags, Mrs…?” John asked, trailing off, because he had no idea what the woman’s name was.

“Martha Hudson, dear,” she answered and waved her hand, “and don’t you worry about the bags. As long as I can still carry them, I will.”

John took the hand she offered to him. “John Watson. Pleasure.”

“Come along then,” she said and nodded towards the front door with the brass 221 lettering.

John trailed after her and waited until she had unlocked the door, chiding her handbag under her breath because it ‘always ate her keys.’ The hall of the building was dim, but warm and inviting with a faint scent of lavender and lemon air freshener. John loved London’s old homes and this was a perfect example. He thought of the concrete block of flats he currently resided in and wanted to sigh.

“Sherlock lives upstairs. Go on, dear, I’m sure he’s awake. He hardly ever sleeps.”

“Okay, thank you,” John said while Mrs Hudson went down the hall to what was likely her own flat.

He climbed the flight of wooden stairs creaking under his feet. John felt a little uneasy about just turning up on someone’s doorstep uninvited. Even more so because he had only known the inhabitant for half a day.

Well, at least it made more sense than camping out in front of the parlour.

John knocked and held his ear close to the door, listening for an answer. There were sounds of someone moving around at a fast pace.

“Sherlock?” John called and knocked again, louder this time.

The only answer he received was a noisy thump, as if something heavy had fallen from some height. Worried, John opened the door -- invitation or not -- and peered through the small hall into what had to be the living room. The source of the noise was easy to identify: Sherlock stood on a step ladder, pulling books from the highest bookshelf and flinging them away so they landed on the floor, producing the racket John had heard from outside.

“No, no, no! Where was it?!” Sherlock— who was definitely not ready for work — growled. He was still in his pyjamas, wearing a blue dressing gown over them and his hair was in wild disarray instead of the constructed disarray he had worn yesterday.

“Uhm...Sherlock?” John tried again and this time, the other man finally reacted and turned around.

“Oh, John. You’re here.” He sounded surprised.

“Of course I am.”

“I didn’t expect you to show up,” Sherlock explained and turned back to the bookcase. “Though I should have known; you’re the _honourable_ type. Always trying to keep promises.”

John wondered if he should be offended. Sherlock’s tone of voice made it sound as if he had a disease.

“Yes, I am a man of my word,” John huffed.

“Well, I wouldn’t have cared if you hadn’t come. This idiotic _quid pro quo_ arrangement was your idea. But since you’re here anyway, you might as well stay and make some tea.” Another heavy volume landed on the floor with a heavy thud.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Tea, John. A hot beverage made from dry leaves and boiling water, often consumed with milk and sugar.”

Sherlock pulled a sheet of paper out of a book, skimming the contents before crumpling it into a ball and throwing it over his shoulder. It bounced off an armchair and rolled under the coffee table.

“Yes, thank you _professor_ ,” John grumbled, unable to bite back the sarcasm. When had he signed up to become a maid? “Shouldn’t we be in the studio? You opened nearly an hour ago.”

Feeling that he wouldn’t be invited in explicitly, he stepped into the living room at last.

“Oh, who cares?” Sherlock flapped his arms for emphasised drama.

“Sherlock! You can’t run a business like that!”

“Please, spare me the lecture!” Sherlock scoffed.

“Well, I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. If you have opening hours, you need to keep them!”

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, opening another book. “Ah, there it is!” he called, waving a sheet of paper like a trophy.

“What is it?” John asked, curious as to why Sherlock would tear down half of his living room for a piece of paper.

“Entomology drawings from the eighteenth century. I knew they were here somewhere!”

“Insects?”

“Yes. Congratulations on remembering your Greek lessons. I need them for a design.” Sherlock hopped off the step ladder, humming in approval of what he saw on the pages.

“Those look ancient,” John said, noticing the paper’s yellow tinge and delicate appearance.

“As I told you ten seconds ago, they’re from the eighteenth century,” Sherlock said and raised an eyebrow. John felt he was accused of being a particularly dense creature.

“Don’t tell me those are genuine pieces from three hundred years ago?” John asked in disbelief.

“Of course they are. Why would I waste my time with substandard copies?” Sherlock muttered and shuffled the pages. John wanted to wince -- these pages begged for gloves and a delicate hand to handle things. Sherlock treated them like printouts from Google Images.

“Why are they jammed into a random book and not preserved in a museum or a library? That kind of academic writing must be rare.” 

“Well, they used to be in the Cambridge library…” Sherlock didn’t even bat an eyelash.

“What?” John couldn’t believe his ears. “You..?”

“Oh, come off it! I have better use for them than a bunch of idiotic biology students. And scans on a database never do the real item justice,” Sherlock said and carelessly let the pages flutter onto the coffee table. 

“Would you steal the Mona Lisa too just because pictures aren’t good enough?” John threw his hands up in despair.

“The Mona Lisa is overrated. Trying to get around the security really isn’t worth it,” Sherlock said and shrugged. Whether Sherlock hadn’t noticed that John’s question had been rhetorical or just wanted to rile him, John couldn’t say. Both were equally likely.

“Oh for God’s sake,” John said, admitting defeat. “Can we please just go to work before I witness any more crimes?”

“Since you insist on trivialities like opening hours…” 

Sherlock had the nerve to sound gracious about it, as if he were indulging John’s most ridiculous wish.

“I will be ready in a few minutes. I suggest you make yourself tea -- and some for me too, while you’re at it.” Sherlock waved his hand and marched off, presumably to his bedroom.

John began to wonder if he had stumbled into some sort of cosmic joke. Ten minutes in and he was more or less babysitting his boss. At this rate, playing the violin would likely turn out to be one of Sherlock’s positive traits.

With the man gone, he took a proper look at the living room and was surprised to see the same wallpaper as downstairs in the studio. The baroque pattern was unmistakable. Overall, he saw a lot of resemblances. Old furniture, Persian rugs and a skull on the mantlepiece. The books on the shelves ran along the same lines as the ones in the studio. His workspace seemed a little more organised, though. Here, papers were strewn about everywhere in small and large stacks, many of them sketches and drawings. Pencils, pens and brushes accompanied them on various surfaces. Tubes of acrylic and oil paint, different cases with half-empty watercolour containers, crayons, chalk and ink were just the tip of the iceberg. John noticed he stood right next to a box of origami papers with beautiful patterns.

The soldier in him was tempted to straighten things up, impressed as he was by the plethora of art supplies. Had Sherlock painted all of the things in the flat himself? The large framed pieces on the walls? John found himself taking an instant liking to a painting of a skull on a turquoise background.

Should he make tea after all?

John felt that he could use a cuppa, particularly after that horrible coffee from earlier. And since Sherlock had practically ordered him to do it, he wouldn’t mind John puttering about in his kitchen.

Making up his mind to just go ahead, he trailed around stacks of sketchbooks and papers, taking a moment to admire a drawing of an African Grey done in white and red pencil on a delicate black sheet. There was no question whether Sherlock was a remarkable artist -- he was brilliant.

To the left, John found the kitchen. Or more precisely what once had been a kitchen.

The dining table and nearly all the worktops were covered in tattoo machines (assembled, half assembled, and disassembled), soldering irons, screwdrivers, electric wires, bottles of ink in dozens of colourful shades, a microscope, glass slides and petri dishes. In the sink lay a (hopefully) fake arm with a snake tattoo. Scissors, pipettes, open notebooks filled with lines and lines of Sherlock’s handwriting, rubber gloves and various chemicals were piled onto the stove.

John stared at the chaos. If he were to make a deduction, he would theorise that Sherlock was a man who ate either at restaurants or relied on takeaway. Cooking seemed to be the rarest activity in this kitchen. It looked more like a workshop and a laboratory had collided.

Sherlock wasted a whole kitchen while John desperately wished for one that would accommodate more than a microwave and a small, scratched and dented kettle. It was unfair.

John filled Sherlock’s bigger, state-of-the-art kettle that had been squeezed behind a bucket of screws and a stuffed pigeon and rummaged through the cupboards for mugs and tea. The cupboards didn’t contain much food or food-related items, save for a few tins, half a bag of rice and pasta, a box of instant coffee and a packet of tea bags.

A small hall led down from the kitchen to a set of doors. Probably the bathroom and Sherlock’s bedroom. John tried to steer his mind away from the images of a half-naked Sherlock Holmes taming his dark curls in front of the mirror. 

John really had to stop doing this. Even if Sherlock was the type of man he went for, he was his boss for the time being and lusting after your boss wasn’t usually a bright idea. 

Sherlock himself might not even be interested in men. And if he were, he might already have a boyfriend.

It had been a few years since John had been with a man. The army still wasn’t the easiest place to be openly gay or, as in John’s case, bisexual. For some raging alpha males there, sleeping with men dramatically lowered your manliness score. When deployed, John usually stuck with women. Stupid as it was, it made things easier.

Distracted by his thoughts, John had let the tea sit for too long. “Bollocks,” he cursed under his breath. Hopefully, Sherlock liked strong black tea.

He fished the bags out and dumped them onto a dirty plate in the sink (next to the arm), seeing as Sherlock’s bin was in danger of overflowing. Calling Sherlock a slob would be putting it nicely.

As if on cue, Sherlock emerged from the bedroom, today in dark denim jeans and a black shirt. His sleeves were still down and John noted that his previous assumption was correct: with his sleeves cuffed at the wrist, Sherlock seamlessly blended in with lawyers and bank types.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, grabbing a container and poured what was hopefully sugar in one of the mugs. Quite a liberal amount of it.

“Sugar?” Sherlock continued.

“Ah, no thanks. I was just surprised how easily you would pass for one of those guys in the financial district.”

“It can be a useful type of camouflage. Though I fear my ear lobes will give me away if one looks closely,” Sherlock said and took a sip. He grimaced and added even more sugar. John’s teeth hurt just seeing it.

Only now John noticed Sherlock wore tunnels in his ears. None in the size of small plates as John had sometimes seen. They were maybe seven or eight millimetres in diameter.

“Huh, I hadn’t even noticed,” John admitted. “Do you have milk?”

“I’m afraid not. I haven’t been to the shops in a while.”

“You don’t say,” John smirked. “The state of the kitchen led me to believe that you were a regular Heston Blumenthal.”

“Cooking is boring,” Sherlock said and shrugged, leaning next to John against the counter.

“Be in the army for a few years and you will appreciate the value of anything that hasn’t come out of a packet, tin or carton,” John answered.

He had got used to army food over the years, though that didn’t make it any less horrible. John had enjoyed cooking or going to nice restaurants on leave. Back then, he had had the money to buy good produce, but not as much time as he would have liked. Now, he had more time than he knew what to do with, but no money. Or people to share good food with.

He remembered that Clara had invited him to stop by at her new flat for dinner -- because he ‘was still her brother-in-law,’ but John would never actually take her up on it. Harry would go ballistic. 

She had always accused John of fancying Clara. Not that she had been entirely wrong: Clara _was_ John’s type, but he would never have hit on his sister’s wife. Even if he had, Clara held zero interest in men, so any effort would have been futile. 

Unfortunately, jealousy wasn’t logical.

Sherlock hadn’t replied to his comment and just looked vaguely amused. He didn’t seem to be interested in discussions about food, or in food in general. His thin frame suggested that his interest in the actual consumption of food was low, too. 

They continued to sip their tea in silence (John regretted the lack of milk with every mouthful), but it was a comfortable one. Sherlock checked his phone all the while, now and then rolling his eyes or muttering under his breath. Mostly insults, but sometimes interrupted by an “interesting.”

“One of these days, I will send a virus to every single idiot who asks for an appointment via email,” Sherlock sighed. “It’s on the website: appointments at the studio only.”

John had seen Sherlock’s website. It was a curious thing, to say the least.

“Some may not have seen that,” John suggested.

“As if I care!”

“If you have a computer at the studio, I can take care of the emails,” John offered. He would at least be polite -- he couldn’t imagine Sherlock being kind when irritated.

“Good plan. Delete all kinds of appointment inquiries, people asking for prices -- or worse asking for bargains -- and all kind of _fan mail_. I don’t want any boring design ideas in my inbox either.”

“Dare I ask what a ‘boring’ design is?”, John asked with his eyebrows raised.

“Anything that contains single feathers, infinity signs, dream catchers, decontextualised Chinese or Japanese characters, or tribal designs -- particularly Maori patterns,” Sherlock grumbled, looking as if he had smelt something nasty.

“Come on, that’s a bit harsh.”

“No. I don’t do them. I’m not here to copy and paste the same stupid flavour of the month over and over. The next time I see a skinny eighteen-year-old who wants to mark himself as some sort of ‘warrior’ by bastardising the cultural heritage of Polynesian peoples, I will resort to bodily harm. There are enough _artists_ in London willing to do these stupid things.”

“All right, keep your hair down,” John said, trying to placate Sherlock. He emptied the mug and placed it in the sink.

“This one is interesting,” Sherlock grinned and waved his phone. “A whole sleeve full of _Wolpertinger_ of my choice.”

“Wolper--what?” John had never heard that word before.

“Wolpertinger,” Sherlock repeated unhelpfully.

John couldn’t even pronounce it. “What’s a..?”

“Animal creatures from Bavarian folklore,” Sherlock explained, looking at John as if this was common knowledge. “Imagine a rabbit with antlers and wings, for example.”

“Okay. That definitely sounds unusual,” John agreed, wondering where people got these ideas. “And they leave everything to you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, eyes glittering with excitement. “I love it when people give me free rein.”

“Does that happen often?” John couldn’t imagine relinquishing control over a whole body part just like that.

“Fairly often. I can deduce what people want with 95% accuracy before they even say anything. Why bother discussing it? Some customers even let me do whatever I want with no specifications whatsoever.”

“What, really?”

“Yes, of course. They’re not going to get something they’ll dislike, so they trust me.”

“That’s a lot of trust,” John said.

“Well, think about your design. How much did I have to go on and yet, did I have to change anything?” Sherlock asked, smug smile etched into his face.

“No. No, it was perfect,” John admitted and smiled back. “You knew better what I wanted than I did.”

“Case in point. Shall we go?” Sherlock placed his cup next to a bunch of cables on the microwave.

“Yes, let’s,” John agreed and followed Sherlock who grabbed a long black coat from the hanger in the hall and hurried outside.

Downstairs, Mrs Hudson was dusting off the small table and mirror next to the stairs. She waved the feather duster in greeting and beamed at them. Sherlock stopped to give her a kiss on the cheek which she received with a delighted laugh. John found the obvious affection between the two heartwarming, even more so considering Sherlock’s usual frosty demeanour. 

“You boys have fun. And be nice, Sherlock!” she called after them.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson!” John called back over his shoulder, slipping out of the door after Sherlock, who was already unlocking the entrance to the studio.

After the door clicked open, Sherlock threw the set of keys at John who caught them in surprise. 

“Take them, you can open up in the morning.” Sherlock shrugged off his coat and slung it over a chair behind the counter. 

“Huh, are you sure?”

“Yes, John. That way, your conscience about the opening hours will be pacified and I won’t have to bother.”

Lazy git.

“Sherlock, your flat keys and everything are on the ring, too.” John let the keys dangle from his finger and shook them, the pieces of metal clanking against each other.

“Astute observation. I have a spare in the flat,” Sherlock murmured and bowed over the calendar on the counter. “You should be able to enter the flat yourself, in case you need to fetch me. I like to work there sometimes.”

“You’re giving your studio and flat keys to a stranger?” John asked, leaving subtlety aside. Sherlock didn’t seem like the naive type.

“I don’t hand out my keys like sweets. You are the epitome of honourable, upstanding human being -- you would never abuse someone’s trust. I wouldn’t let you work here if I couldn’t leave you around my equipment.”

“But --” John protested.

“Am I wrong?” Sherlock asked and looked up, staring into John’s eyes as if challenging him.

“No,” John conceded. Sherlock was spot-on: John was loyal to a fault if the other person inspired such trust. For some reason, Sherlock did just that, even after such a short time.

“Stop arguing then,” Sherlock said with finality and John decided not to push the issue. And why should he?

“Thanks,” he said and pocketed the keys. He was strangely touched by Sherlock’s trust in him.

“Yes, yes. How about work?”

“That’s what I’m here for,” John said, taking off his jacket and placing it on the hook by the door.

“By the way...catch,” Sherlock called and threw something at John, who was just barely able to grab it before it hit him square in the face.

“Sherlock, what the--”

John stopped abruptly, staring at the object in his hands. It was his cane. He must have left it here after his appointment and hadn’t even noticed he hadn’t been using it.

“Really, John. Some people say tattoos can be sort of cathartic, but you’re taking it to a whole new level,” Sherlock grinned, looking genuinely pleased.

“Wow, I…” John had no idea what to say.

“You should have come straight to me instead of therapy,” Sherlock teased further and twirled a pen between his fingers.

“How do you know I have a therapist?”

“A soldier with a traumatic injury and a psychosomatic limp permanently sent home from a war zone? Couldn’t think of a reason.” At least Sherlock didn’t sound judgemental. His parents were uneasy with him consulting a psychologist.

“Fair enough,” John sighed and placed the cane in the umbrella stand. Tonight, he would reflect long and hard on that. And then hopefully never touch the cane again.

“Now that’s done with, you can start on the paper towels.”

For the next hour, Sherlock gave instructions on what John would have to do during his time here: clean up, wipe the floors, clean and sterilise equipment, answer the phone, make appointments, check the stock on jewellery, paper towels, cleaning supplies and hygiene materials such as nitrile gloves. Sherlock didn’t explain much about the processes themselves, but it wasn’t necessary anyway.

He noted that while Sherlock might be a slob in his own flat, the studio was meticulous. Everything was packaged, labelled and sealed. All surfaces looked clean and cared for with diligence. John couldn’t help but be pleased with the state of things.

He spent the next two hours familiarising himself with the organisation of the studio and prepared a stack of paper towels for Sherlock, who sat at a table, drawing insects that looked very much antique.

John answered the phone four times and read the care instructions for piercings and tattoos a few times, in case anyone had questions. Around three, a young woman came in for a belly button piercing and left with a vertical labret. Sherlock explained how he had deduced that she would actually prefer the labret, but John couldn’t follow the complicated explanation which somehow included the woman’s handbag and scarf.

At some point, John nipped out for a sandwich at the café around the corner, bringing one back for Sherlock who refused to eat because it ‘slowed him down.’ John just put it in the small fridge for later, swallowing a lecture about proper meals.

With downtime before the next customer was supposed to arrive, John thought it couldn’t hurt to learn a bit more about Sherlock. He had to admit he was curious about the man. Sherlock Holmes exuded an air of mystery, even now when he was huddled into a chair and cradled a violin.

“How did you of all people become a tattoo artist anyway?”

Sherlock smirked. “Are you implying that I’m an unlikely artist?”

“You know you are. With the posh language and the expensive shirts, you seem way more like the type who went to Eton to become a lawyer or government official.”

“Westminster School, actually,” Sherlock said in a casual tone and drew the bow of his violin lightly over the strings.

“Of course, silly of me.” So Sherlock _had_ gone to a prestigious public school.

Sherlock let the bow screech along the strings, eliciting a few unpleasant sounds that hurt John’s ears. “Government work would be dull though. Politics bore me.”

That, John believed. Sherlock didn’t have any idea who the Prime Minister was, which party he belonged to or when the next election would be held. Sherlock had said he had deleted the information because it wasn’t relevant to his work.

“Fair enough; government work is boring. Tattoo artist still doesn’t seem like the usual path for boys from posh schools.”

“Well, I studied chemistry at Cambridge for a while...but I never finished my Master’s degree.” Sherlock shrugged with the kind of aristocratic ennui he seemed so fond of. 

“Why not?”

“The projects were interesting enough, but I found the regulations to be too restrictive and left. My family wasn’t delighted,” Sherlock said with a gleeful smirk. “I went to France for a while afterwards. That’s where I first came into contact with tattoos -- the French think outside the box and it takes a lot of precision and knowledge to be good at it. I found it fascinating.”

“So you learned it in France?”

“Yes, I convinced the artist who did my first one to train me,” Sherlock explained and John was fairly sure that ‘convinced’ meant ‘relentlessly bothered him until he caved.’ “I always had drawing skills and my scientific background appealed to my master. He had a very analytical mind and often constructed his tattoo designs geometrically.”

John could see how that was the type of artist that Sherlock could connect with. Sherlock seemed to be a very rational person who worked with his mind rather than his gut.

“How long were you in France?”

“My apprenticeship lasted about five years, but for two of those, I worked nearly on the level of a full-fledged artist. I was offered to stay as a partner in the shop, but I wanted to go back to London and I prefer to work alone.” Sherlock said and took a sip of his tea. “More freedom and less idiots who comment on my methods.”

“Speaking of which, I looked you up last night. On the internet.”

“Ah, good. Did you like the website?” Sherlock asked and stretched his arms over his head, making his wrists crack.

“Your website? You can deduce a customer’s wishes by the shade of their lipstick and the state of their shoes?”

“Well, of course,” Sherlock said, put down the violin and walked over to the fridge where he grabbed a can of Red Bull and opened it. 

“Why aren’t there any pictures?” John asked and watched Sherlock take a long sip of the energy drink.

“Why would I fill my website with photographs?”

“Why?” John sputtered. Why was this even a question? “Sherlock, people are interested in your _art_ , not a two-hundred page essay on the effects of a certain machine on the sharpness of black line work. Or the differences between types of red ink!”

Sherlock’s website had been one of the dullest things John had ever read. And he had once memorised every bone and amino acid in the human body.

“Those are _important_ facts!” Sherlock burst out. “There are pictures of tattoos everywhere on the internet!”

John blinked. Sherlock didn’t just live on a different planet, he was entirely removed from the milky way and had holed up somewhere in a galaxy unbeknownst to man. 

He would have argued the website’s case further, but the doorbell chimed and in came Mrs Hudson with a bright smile and a large tray.

“Boys, I brought you some tea and biscuits. Just this once though, because it’s John’s first day. I’m not a delivery service!”

Mrs Hudson placed a striped tray carrying two mugs of steaming tea and a plate of chocolate biscuits on the counter. John considered awarding her sainthood then and there. Sherlock didn’t even have a hot water boiler or a coffee machine in the studio. How did a person get through a day without a supply of caffeinated hot drinks?

The delicious smell of fresh biscuits even lured Sherlock from his lair in the back. He reached over John’s shoulder to swipe a few. John in turn seized the chance to enjoy the whiff of Sherlock’s cologne -- it was fresh and earthy, the same type that John himself preferred.

Mrs Hudson unfolded the newspaper that she had brought as well and skimmed the front page. “There was another one of these murders. The ones where the victims vanished and only a piece of skin was left behind. And all of them with tattoos? What do you think of that, Sherlock? Thought that might be right up your street.” 

John remembered seeing the news this morning before he had left. The story about the crimes with the vanishing victims. All that was left behind was a stretch of skin, but the police didn’t give out much information other that skin had been found; and though they were still investigating they didn’t expect the victims to be alive. Officially, the information was sparse because the investigation was still ongoing, but John suspected they kept a lid on it to stall a panic reaction conjured up by sensationalist press. 

However, the tabloids were already in the middle of doing just that. Someone had leaked that all pieces of skin found were marked with tattoos and _The Sun_ had used it as an angle about a “tattoo serial killer” they had pet-named “The Skinner.” They were tasteful as usual.

“It is certainly interesting. The police likes to deny it, but I have no doubt it’s a serial offender,” Sherlock said, looking out of the shop window when a triumphant smile appeared on his face. “And I think there has been another one.”

John wanted to ask how he would know about that, but he was stopped by the chime of the doorbell. A man with grey hair, clad in a trench coat stepped inside, looking at Sherlock with a grim sense of expectation.

“Ah, Detective Inspector, can I help you?”

John gaped a little. He had just seen the man on the telly this morning, doing the press conference on the ‘Skinner’.

“Another murder, I take it?” Sherlock asked in a smug tone, smile on his lips.

The detective inspector’s scowl deepened, and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. John didn’t get the impression the man was glad to be here -- he looked truly uncomfortable. Sherlock on the other hand grew more and more radiant.

“Will you take a look?” The police man grumbled and nodded towards the manila folder jammed under his arm.

“Oh, what happened to ‘we don’t need your _expertise_ every time a victim turns out to have a tattoo?’” Sherlock asked in a mocking voice and flung himself dramatically over the sofa in the waiting area.

“Come on, Sherlock,” the detective inspector pleaded.

“What expertise?” John blurted out, unable to remain a silent observer.

For the first time, the man actually looked at him. John noticed with doctorly concern that the other’s face was a little ashen. Too much artificial light, caffeine and junk food combined with too little sleep. Judging his age to be just a few years older than John, he supposed the man could have gone grey prematurely. 

“John, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. He likes to consult my _expertise_ about body modification whenever he finds himself in a ditch. Which is rather often.” Sherlock explained nonchalantly and started to nibble on one of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits.

“For crimes?”

“Of course. I can identify 87% of London’s registered tattoo artists upon seeing a piece of their work and a vast number of artists from all over the world, which is useful for unidentified corpses. I can deduce a lot about a person from their body art or the state of their skin. The police usually find an ID much quicker with my help. And Lestrade here has rightfully recognised this fact.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes and shook John’s hand. “It’s more a case of you not leaving me alone until I promised to come ask for your help when it’s _relevant_. A butterfly on some dead sod’s arse isn’t always important.”

He opened the folder and let several photographs glide onto the counter in front of him.

“Sorry mate. Forgot to ask whether you got a strong stomach,” Lestrade said when John eyed the A4-printouts of crime scene photos.

“No need to worry,” John mumbled and picked up one of the pictures.

He had seen enough gruesome things in Afghanistan to last a lifetime. There wasn’t much you could still shock him with. John had seen many corpses both as a doctor and as a soldier. Except there weren’t any corpses in the pictures.

The police hadn’t released many details on the case, just that they had missing persons who were most likely victims of murder, judging that the only piece to be found at crime scenes were large panes of skin with tattoos. 

John was looking at a picture of the whole crime scene. Apparently, the perpetrator not only left skin behind, he put it in vintage frames and hung them onto the walls of back alleys until found. He could feel a shiver travelling down his spine. That wasn’t just an ordinary criminal -- the person doing this desperately wanted attention. The police was lucky to be able to have kept the staging of the skin under wraps. John could just see the papers having a field day if they found out.

“Sherlock, with the fourth turning up today, we’re reasonably sure it’s not a coincidence that all of the victims were tattooed. It’s always different body parts, but all of them with tattoos. And this morning, I had a proper look at them…” Lestrade trailed off and rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought they look an awful lot like the stuff you do. This artsy tattoo thing.”

“ _Artsy tattoo thing?_ I’m hardly the only artist in London who follows a more graphic approach,” Sherlock said, but his interest was piqued since he got up and swiped the photographs before John had a chance to look at the others.

“Interesting,” Sherlock murmured while he went over the pictures.

“What’s interesting?” Lestrade asked and peered over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“That you’re actually capable of a useful deduction,” Sherlock grimaced. “These are in fact pieces I did myself.”

Sherlock looked completely unperturbed by the idea, if not a little excited. John was baffled, and Lestrade looked relieved. Probably because he had finally made some progress.

“Those are all your customers, Sherlock?”

“Yes, do keep up, John.”

John found the thought chilling. “All of them were your customers? Shit, I’m sorry,” John said and pulled a face.

“Why would you be sorry?” Sherlock asked, looking bewildered.

“Well...you knew them.”

“They were customers, John. Not friends. And most of them were imbeciles. Although that one with the leg tattoo was tolerable,” Sherlock pondered

That was cold. John was just about to protest the lack of common decency when Lestrade cut in: “Tolerable or not, can you identify them?”

“I deleted their names. But I could look through my designs; the names are on the sketches. Or I suppose I could draw you a portrait.”

“Of course you deleted the names,” Lestrade sighed in exasperation. John wondered how someone ‘deleted’ a name from their knowledge, but didn’t want to interrupt the DI. “Look for the names. That’s easier than waiting for someone to recognise them.”

“Don’t you have matching missing persons reports?” John asked.

“Not yet,” Lestrade explained and shrugged. “We might, but if the tattoo isn’t on the report, we can’t match it.”

“Isn’t it an important feature?”

“The people reporting missing persons aren’t always aware of them. A lot still hide them from family or coworkers,” Sherlock muttered. “The one with the leg tattoo worked in a bank or law firm, for example.”

John thought that made sense. He certainly wouldn’t tell his mother that he had one. She still thought only criminals wore them. The choice of design wouldn’t win her over either, since she had never been too thrilled about his military career. After his removal from active duty, she had once grumbled how John had deserved that bullet if he had been stupid enough to sign up for _bloody Afghanistan_. His father wasn’t quite as harsh about it, but twenty years after John had chosen his career path, his father was still disappointed that John hadn’t become an electrician and taken over his business.

To think that a lot of parents were quite pleased when their children became doctors...

“Lestrade, I want to see the bodies! Or body parts, I should say,” Sherlock burst out, fiery determination in his eyes. He shoved the pictures back in the folder, thrusting it at Lestrade.

“What? Why? I’m already treading on thin ice just disclosing details to you!” Lestrade protested as he snatched the folder back.

“I will be able to tell you much more if I can see the actual evidence. There are details that won’t be visible on a photograph. I suppose they’re at Bart’s?”

“But --” Lestrade continued, but stopped after Sherlock gave him a look of steel that accepted no argument.

“John, cancel all of today’s appointments. Just tell them anything, I don’t ca-- no, wait! You should come!”

He swirled around, hefting his gaze on John. Sherlock looked like Christmas had come early: all giddy excitement. John wondered what it said about him that he didn’t find a man who was this excited about potential murders unsettling.

“Seriously?” John asked.

“No, Sherlock! I’m already in enough trouble bringing you in! I don’t need your friends to tag along, too!”

“Oh shush, Lestrade!” Sherlock huffed and swatted his hand at the man as if he were an annoying fly. “John is a former army doctor. He has excellent knowledge of skin, traumatic injuries and death. I need him!”

“You’re a doctor?” Lestrade asked, sounding as if he couldn’t quite believe it. 

John could understand the surprise; one generally didn’t expect a doctor behind the counter of a tattoo parlour. 

“I am,” John confirmed and forced a smile. “Got shipped back from Afghanistan a while ago after I got shot.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows had nearly vanished into his hairline while he studied John a little further. Nearby, Sherlock tapped his foot with pointed impatience, conveying clearly how much of a waste of time he considered this exchange.

Finally, Lestrade sighed: “Fine. You get five minutes.”

Sherlock, looking triumphant, grabbed his coat from behind the counter, throwing it over his shoulders. He was vibrating with enthusiasm. John thought it looked even better on him than bored nonchalance. 

“Coming?” Sherlock asked with a smirk.

“Oh God, yes!” John said after a moment of surprised silence, following after Sherlock in his dramatic black coat.

His first day started to look very promising.

**Author's Note:**

>   * Japanese irezumi is the traditional Japanese art of tattooing. The designs usually show mythical creatures or heroes from Japanese folklore. For a long time, irezumi was associated with the Japanese Yakuza (mafia) who often had full body suits, such as [these](http://tokyofashion.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/Horimyo-Japanese-Tattoo-Artist-2012-07-011.jpg)(NSFW). While a lot of Yakuza these days go without full body tattoos to blend in more easily, Japanese society still closely links tattoos with the mafia, so it’s often impossible for tattooed people to get into most public baths or hot springs. (My personal favourite among Japanese artists is the more modern oriented [Shige](http://www.yellowblaze.net/shige-full-body.html) from Yellow Blaze in Yokohama. 
>   * The French tattoo scene has a reputation of being very experimental and daring in their approach, often overthrowing old traditions. Good examples are the popular French artists [ XOIL](https://www.facebook.com/pages/Xo%C3%AFl-Needles-Side-TattOo/117449854938676) and [Yann Black.](http://www.yourmeatismine.com/)
>   * Geometrical tattoos have become very popular recently. One artist who has earned a lot of recognition for his precise and beautiful work in that field is Berlin artist [Chaim Machlev](http://instagram.com/dotstolines#)
>   * On a side note: I decided to have Sherlock wear jeans instead of suit trousers out of practicality. You get a lot of colour on your clothes as a tattoo artist (or at least my boss does) and while they wash out quite well, I wouldn’t subject delicate suit materials to prolonged exposure to colour. ~~Also, a tattoo artist in a full suit sounds a bit over the top, or is that just me?~~ And since Sherlock wore jeans in the pilot episode, I thought I could get away with it! 
>   * Sorry about killing Speedy’s. I needed the space.
> 


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Artfully Afflicted](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183145) by [crookedspoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon)
  * [nothing is more serious than pleasure](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1218862) by [Neurotoxia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia)




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